Blood and Roses
by Mots d'imagination
Summary: If he still had breath to take, he would have gladly given it for the woman in the window. Rated M for later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

He should have stuck to the streets. That was the first thought to cross his mind as his ice blue eyes took in the "party" that spilled onto the grounds of the sprawling estate before him. He had assumed that a gathering of the town's top socialites would give him a much needed respite from his usual routine. Clearly, he was wrong. He had heard of the event in passing; in truth he wasn't even aware what necessitated the forced celebration. Oh, the sounds and sights were right; but the faces, the grim smiles, they were all wrong. Perhaps he had walked into a lively funeral. The irony made his eyes crinkle with his grin. After nearly a thousand years, he had learned to entertain himself.

He stuck to the shadows along the trees that lined the long drive up to the front door. No reason to make his presence known just yet; although no one would truly recognize him. He had traveled the world as a shadow himself. Never staying in the same place for more than a few weeks, a few months at the longest. Never returning until those that could recognize him had been buried in the earth. This was the longest he had ever stayed put in quite awhile. Close enough to London to escape into the city when the country nights became too boring. He had been itching to move on. But he couldn't shake off the feeling that he wasn't finished here. There was still more to do.

His long, cool fingers wrapped around the head of his walking stick, leaning against it as he rolled around his plan for the night. Glamour his way into the party, enjoy a few of the humans that looked tastiest, and then disappear back into the night? Or slaughter the lot of them and leave the mystery for the newspapers to pick up in the morning. At the moment, neither option did much to excite him. His mind was already made up to return to town, perhaps find nourishment in the warm body of the mistresses that never seemed to be in short supply. He wasn't sure what made his head turn back to look at the house; it was instinct.

The light from the top story window was subdued, as if the inhabitant didn't wish to be there themselves. But he could see her; there was no hiding from him. He could see the way her corset showcased her tiny waist, pushing her breasts up deliciously. He could see the way her blonde hair was fashionably styled; twisted intricately with soft curls spilling over her shoulders. And her dress; the exact crimson of blood. It was wrapped around her small frame, contrasting with her pale, smooth skin. As if she was gift wrapped especially for him. If he still had breath to take, he would have gladly given it for the woman in the window. His eyes followed her as she paced the room, reminding him of a caged animal. She looked like one of the characters he had seen human children read about; A princess, locked in a stone tower.

As she turned to start yet another short walk across the floor of the room, he saw the reflection of her tears on her perfectly miserable face. At once, his heart clenched, vowing to destroy whoever had made this woman weep. It mattered not that he didn't so much as know her name. As she turned away from the window once again, he forgot himself, and took a step out of the shadows. He wanted, needed to be closer to her. She was his now. That simple fact he knew. And it was all that mattered.

He didn't move back as she came round to face the window again, as if daring her to notice him. His lips curled into a smirk as she hesitated by the glass, the moonlight playing across her face. She wasn't destined to be a mere human. She was destined for something else. Something greater. Destined for him. Even as she stared across the vast lawn, he knew she could not see him. Not yet. Not until he chose to make himself known. But for the first time in centuries, he found himself second guessing. Her blue eyes, which he could see so closely matched his own, were looking right at him.

He could almost see the battle raging behind her eyes, though her face remained calm, with only the trickle of a tear giving her away. He couldn't help himself. He took another step out of the shadows, just as she flung open the window.


	2. Chapter 2

For a brief moment, Eric simply stared as the blonde woman hesitated at her open window. Only when she looked back over her shoulder, as if debating on her next move, did he remember himself, and he stepped back into the shadows. She hadn't seen him. Not yet.

It's not often that humans surprised him. After the first few hundred years, it became too easy to guess their next move. And after the next hundred or so, it was almost downright boring. Of course there were a few instances that made him take a second look. Selfless acts. Brave acts. So far and few between. But none had captured his attention. Until this princess in her tower. He couldn't turn his eyes away. And so he watched, enraptured as she swung first one leg out the window, and then the next. She sat there, on the ledge, for only a few seconds. Eric saw her breasts rise as she took a deep breath, bracing herself. He was sure she was going to jump. And he was going to save her. The conviction in his own thoughts startled him. She should be nothing to him. It should not bother him that if she jumped, she would not live. The image of her broken body on the ground should not make his heart twist in his chest. But it did. And he could not allow it. His blue eyes widened as she shifted in her seat, and her hands left the ledge.

The only thing that kept his feet where they were was the determined scowl that rippled across her face in the second that she let go. This was not the face of a woman who was welcoming the end. This was a woman who was in full control. She managed to gracefully, even in her full skirts, climb down the rose and ivy trellis outside her window. The roses framed her climb down, as if acknowledging one of their own. A beautiful backdrop to what he was sure now was an escape. Her feet hit the ground with a soft thump that he was willing to bet only he could hear. And the instant she straightened, a dazzling smile split her lips. The smile of freedom. He allowed himself to feel the pang of guilt for only one moment; he was going to take this life from her. This hard-won freedom. But he comforted himself in the knowledge that he would be giving her so much more. More than any human could ever offer her.

He watched as she took a moment to brush off her crimson gown, but not once did her eyes stray back to the house that she had just escaped. Even from his position in the shadows, he could see how inviting the dwelling looked; the light looked warm as it bathed the lawn through the windows. But the runaway princess only jerked her head up, gathered her many skirts, and fled towards the woods that surrounded the estate. And he followed without question. He could see she was taking the utmost care to be silent; though she was anything but to him. Her footsteps, her quickened breath, even the excited blood rushing through her veins. It was a song he followed as she ran deeper and deeper into the trees. She only slowed when she reached the edge of a clearing. She never stumbled, she just simply stopped running; slowing into a walk until she reached the other side. And then, as if she heard him, which he knew could not be true, she turned, and her eyes met his in the darkness.

He took a slow step forward, fully expecting her to run as he came into full view. And for the second time in a single night, this human surprised him. She didn't turn, she didn't even take a step back. Instead, she held his gaze, and took a step forward. He couldn't help the tug of a smile on his own lips. She wasn't running. She was simply staring, as if studying the deadly man before her. He stood still, an internal battle raging in his eyes. He wanted her to run, to save herself, to see how deadly he truly was. At the same time, he wanted to fall to his knees, and beg her to stay. He watched as the resolve formed in her own ice blue eyes, and she inclined her head, but her gaze never left his. And, as if they were merely two partners on a dance floor, he returned with a bow, and held out his hand to her.

He promised himself that if she fled, he would not give chase. He would let her make the decision, even if she had no idea what it entailed. He wanted, needed her to choose him. To come to him. To be his. But as she reached out her own hand in response, he vaguely recalled he had never been very good at keeping promises. The moment he had seen her, she had been his.

He didn't move as she took a small step forward, his hand still held out in front him. Her pulse was threatening to drive him mad, and it took every fiber of control to keep him still and not reach out and grab her. He heard her quick intake of breath, and nearly sighed in relief himself as a few more quick footsteps brought her right in front of him. His fingers closed around hers the instant she placed her hand in his. His broad hand covered her delicate one completely. He meant to bring her hand to his lips, to see if they were as soft as they looked. But when her lips parted in a sweet sigh, he crashed his to them. He knew that some part of him didn't want her to talk, didn't want to give her the chance to refuse him. She was his. She belonged to him. No one could take this away from him now. He felt her responding in his arms, her tiny hands attempting to hold his face to hers. She was either passionate, desperate, or insane.

His lips kissed a cool trail from her mouth, to her jaw, and down to her neck. Her pulse thrummed against his lips, and his fangs clicked into place. She was so warm in his arms, her body fitting perfectly into his, as if she was made to be protected by him. As if he was made nearly a thousand years in the past, specifically for this woman. His own maker's words floated through his brain:

_"You'll know. And nothing will stop you." _

The woman's soft moan hitched as her blood flooded his mouth. Sweet, with some exotic flavor twisted within. He continued to pull on the wound, drawing more and more blood into his mouth with each swallow. He could feel her stiffen in his arms, her body beginning to lose its warmth. But still, she did not cry out. She did not beg him to stop. She did not fight. And once again, he found himself wondering if she really was insane.

When he had drunk to the point of no return, he released her from his kiss of death. Her eyes took on a glassy effect, not really following his movements as he slashed his own wrist, and let his blood spill into her mouth. He merely scooped her into his arms when her body gave in. Her eyes were fluttering; heavy with death as they remained trained on his. He smiled his first true smile in years before he brushed his lips against hers once more, tasting their mingled blood. He could see that spark still in her eye; not fear, but excitement of the unknown. He lowered his head to hers, lightly kissing each of her eyelids closed. He knew he had mere seconds, and he knew he could have said more. But his first and final words to her in her human life were quite simple.

"Trust me."

She nodded, and then she died in his arms.


	3. Chapter 3

Her name was Pamela.

Such a funny thing, to learn the name of someone you had, with all technicalities aside, murdered. Even more ironic was that he had learned it from her gravestone. A simple, yet elegant slab of stone marked the spot where she had been put to rest three days ago now. And he remained the only mourner.

He had carried her lifeless body back from the woods, with the party still in full swing. No one had noticed she had gone. Not yet. He debated on where he should leave her, where she would be found. He knew it would be easier in the future if everyone believed her to be dead. Easier to start over when a family had already accepted the loss. He hesitated to enter her bedroom, to contaminate her human life with his presence. Her past didn't matter to him; she was his future. In the end, he had laid her body in the roses below her window, arranging her so it would look as if she had jumped to her death. Eric couldn't bring himself to leave her so askew that it would be believable, and silently wondered if he was already losing his touch. He doubted anyone would truly question how she had died. It only mattered that she had.

When he heard the sound of feet on the stairs inside, knowing that someone was coming for her, he gently kissed her cold lips.

"I will see you soon, min ros. I _promise_."

He was already hidden in the woods when the screaming started. Calling for help. Calling for god. But no one could help her now. His blue eyes merely watched as the men folk gathered by the bottom of the window, forming a circle around her body, obscuring it from his view. Jealousy reared its head when a man picked her up. The feeling was foreign to him, and he did not like it. Did not understand it. But the moment the human's hands touched her, all he could hear was a single word.

_"Mine."_

His eyes stayed trained on her window as he watched the movement within. Only the always brightening horizon could make him turn away. He buried himself there, in the woods, always within eyesight of her window. He had to resist the urge to poke his head out of the earth to check on her throughout the day. He knew they would be planning her funeral. She was clearly from a prominent family; it would be at least a day or two until she joined him in the dirt. All through the first night, he kept watch. He did not leave his post until the dawn.

When he rose on the second night, the sounds of women weeping greeted him. Soon. His blonde hair was dimmed with dirt, and the rest of him didn't look much cleaner. But he needed to see this, the end of her human life. The beginning of her immortal one. He crept close, too close to the tree line, taking in what he was sure was the last moments of her funeral. The priest continued to drone on as Eric's gaze swept through the small gathering. Nearly all the women were dabbing their eyes, save one. Though, it was unfair to group her with the elders; she could be no more than thirteen. She had the same blonde hair as the woman from the window, the same blue eyes. And just like her older double, the child turned towards the woods. This time, Eric didn't even both to question how someone so young could sense him. But the young girl locked eyes with him even as no one else noticed. They widened, just a bit. The girl's eyes took in the man, the dirt on his clothes and in his hair. Eric found himself suddenly standing tall, almost eager for her assessment. The child's blue eyes darted to the coffin, and then back to Eric. After just a moment, she gave a slight nod, and turned her back on the woods. And although she was no longer looking, Eric inclined his head to the small girl with blonde curls.

Now, it was the third night since her death. Eric had left the woods only long enough to clean himself, not wanting to face her as if he was a beggar. He was anything but, as she would soon learn. He now stood before her grave, having dug up the earth to make her rising easier. His hands were still tinged with dirt; as if to show that he and only he had brought her into this life, by his own hHe left her coffin closed, knowing it would be important to let her take the first step into the eternal night by herself. Someone had delivered the gravestone while he had gone, and now he studied it as he waited.

Pamela.

Simple. But with so _much_promise.

Pamela.

He wondered why he had never noticed how beautiful that name was.

Pamela.

_Mine._

"My Pamela."

No sooner had he said those two words out loud then he felt it. He felt her. Waking up. Coming alive. It was a rush through his blood. An ecstasy that enveloped him completely. Now he understood what Godric had meant. Being a maker. It was more than a bite. It was more than sharing blood. It was everything. It was pure nature.

He waited, anxiously, with a rose in his hand that he had plucked himself from below her window. He could hear her moving in her coffin; the confusion, the fear. He could no longer tell if the excitement was coming from her, or from himself. Finally, he could stand it no more; he reached down to open the lid, just as she shoved it open from the inside.

He was the first thing she saw, and her eyes locked on his. He could nothing but stare down at her as she sat in the cold grave. They had buried her in that same damned dress he had found her in. Blood red. A blood rose. Eventually, he remembered himself; and leaning forward, he offered her his hand, his lips already curling into a grin. She took it without question, and he raised her to his side.

They stood, face to face, her chin jerked upward in order to meet his eyes. His elation was mixed with confusion; he could still clearly remember his first night with Godric. How he could barely draw his eyes away from everything around him. Everything had been different, sharper. He could hardly get his fill. But now she, this tiny woman, wasn't looking away from him. It was as if the wonders of the world no longer interested her. He took a careful step forward as she reached out her hand, touching his chest. As if checking to see if he was real. He felt her fingers glide across the silk of his shirt, hovering where his heart once beat. She blinked, and he could literally see the connection being made. When she opened her mouth, he was sure she would scream.

She laughed.

**Translation:**  
_min__ros - my rose_


	4. Chapter 4

Laughing. She was _laughing _over her own grave.

Eric had never been a man to show much emotion, even when he was human; but something about watching this creature, his own making, his progeny laugh caused his own lips to draw up into a wide grin. That was the only thing he needed to see. He had chosen well. He had chosen right. She was born to be his. She had been born to die.

Her laughter was only cut off by his lips, and even he was surprised by how strongly, how passionately she responded. Her hands twisted in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer. He needed no further urging, his hands leaving dirty streaks across the soft velvet of her deep red gown. Those same hands, that had always been so sure and confident, skilled even, when dealing with women, thousands of women, were suddenly close to trembling. Her need and wants washed through him, unfiltered, and he knew his own desires were threatening to drown. But even with this new tidal wave of emotions, she never let go, she never ceased in her attempts to mold herself to him. He had become her anchor in this storm of death, and his own body encircled her, ready to protect.

His fingers expertly pulled at the strings of her corset, and she whimpered as the cool night air rushed across her exposed breasts. He wasn't sure if the sound came from the new heightened sensation or if it was a new experience all together. He didn't care; her past didn't concern him. The future was all he had to think about. His lips finally turned their attention to something other than her soft lips. The sharp intake of breath that followed as he captured her nipple with his cool mouth almost sent him over the edge, and he had to force himself to pull away. As if she would allow such a thing. Her hips ground into his, and he was sure she could feel exactly what she was doing to him, even through her thick skirts. Her blue eyes grew wide as she became aware of her actions, and he felt the first few tendrils of doubt filter through her blood. And he hated it. His hand had already gripped her chin, wrenching it up just as he saw her eyes lower in embarrassment, forcing them to remain raised, focused on his own.

"Do _not_ look upon the ground; do _not_ be ashamed for what you feel."

Those innocent eyes grew impossibly wider as he spoke; his voice stayed soft, as if explaining something to a small child. But while he spoke, his hands drifted. His thumbs grazed the roundness of her breasts, intentionally not touching her where he knew she ached. Her head rolled back, and something between a sigh and groan echoed in the night.

"You are above all others now. You bow to _no one_. You _take_ what you _want_."

His fingers fell to her hips, and slowly, he pulled at the heavy fabric of her skirts. How she ever managed to climb down a window and run through the thick woods in the garment astounded him. She had been desperate to make her escape. As the skirts inched higher and higher, he saw the resolve strengthen behind her eyes. His hands slipped underneath, making short work of the undergarments they had buried her in. A lady, even in death. The back of his hand brushed against her as his lips pressed against her ear.

"What do you want, Pamela?"

She did not ask how he knew her name. She did not question why a complete stranger had his hand up her skirt, outside, in the middle of the night. But she did answer him; and the words he first heard her speak rang through the night.

"You. I want you."

He absorbed her strength at the last second as she launched herself at him, allowing them both to tumble down to the dirt. She sat astride his hips, her skirts pulled up to her waist. The moonlight spilled across her blonde hair, making it look white, almost translucent. She looked like an angel, and Eric was intent to corrupt her. To teach her. His fangs slid down just as he overpowered her, swiftly turning them both so that she lay before him as he hovered above. She couldn't seem to decide what to concentrate on first; the buttons of his pants or the appearance of his fangs. Her fingers explored both, blue eyes darting up and down his body. He waited, allowing her to study him as he studied her, to wrap her mind around what was happening; what had happened. She finally met his eyes as she managed to free him from the confines of his pants.

"What are you?"

His only answer was a hiss as she rocked her hips towards him, the tip of his cock parting her folds. Her head fell back, her blonde curls splaying against the dark ground. He restrained himself, brushing his lips across her neck, not moving any further.

"Look at me, Pamela. _Eyes on me_."

Immediately, her eyes opened, and locked with his. And then her fangs, so small compared to his, flashed down. Her hand flew to her mouth, and she pricked her finger on her sharp teeth. She pulled her finger away, holding it between the two of them as she watched the blood drip even as the wound closed.

"What am I?"

He responded with a single word as he claimed her, sinking into her to the hilt. Filling her completely. Even her own screams of pleasure couldn't drown out his answer as he all but shouted.

_"Mine."_


	5. Chapter 5

"What do you mean I can't go back?"

Not for the first time since they had bothered to stand from the dirt, Eric restrains himself from rolling his blue eyes. After everything she had been through, after everything that had transpired in the hours that darkness claimed the world; that had been her only incessant question. His fingers never slowed in their mission to retie the strings of her corset; although the act itself was foreign to him. He had never helped a woman dress; certainly not when he had been the one to undress her. Seeing as they were usually passed out from blood loss, or dead, he had never seen the need to. But this, dressing Pamela; this he enjoyed. He relished the feel of the velvet smoothing over her skin; his tight pulls on her corset wrapping her back up, for him to take off later. It was intimate, on a level he had never before experienced. Hushing her with a low growl, he ties the final bow perfectly, turning her around with a touch of his fingers until she faced him.

"Just what I said, Pamela. You cannot go back. That is not your home anymore. Your home is with me."

An endearing smile graced his lips, one he knew, from many previous experiences, that women couldn't resist. He held out his hand, expecting her to finally give in and follow him back to where he had been staying. What he did not expect was for her to pick up her skirts and turn away, tossing back a "No, thank you," over her shoulder. Stunned, he could only blink at her retreating back. No thank you. At least her manners were intact after rendering a thousand year old Viking speechless. Gathering his senses, he sped to block her.

"What did you say to me?" His voice was incredulous.

"I said, 'no, thank you.'"

She once again tried to step around him, clearly focused on returning to her home. Only his growl of warning brought her eyes back up to his.

"Nobody says no to me."

He knew how pathetic it sounded; something one of the drunk humans would say down at the pubs in the city. His brow arched in a challenge. And she returned his expression, adding in a careless shrug. His fangs snapped down as his anger rocketed through him; her own slid down at the same time, though she seemed to realize how much smaller they were, and promptly covered her mouth with her hands, glaring at him over the top of them.

"That still doesn't answer my question, sir. Why can't I go home?"

He answered her as bluntly as possible; not sparing her emotions.

"Because, Pamela, you're dead."

Her hysterical giggles pierced through his un-beating heart. When she saw that her amusement wasn't exactly returned, she all but stomped her foot.

"Am not. Look at me! I'm alive! I'm walking, I'm talking…I'm breathing…"

Her words faltered on her sweet lips as his hands stole to her waist, turning her around to face the grave she had climbed out of only hours before. He felt her go weak as her eyes landed on her own name on the gravestone, and he banded his arm around her waist, pulling her back to his chest. His lips moved by her ear, explaining in soft words that sounded on the verge of apologetic.

"That is your grave, Pamela. The grave your family buried you in. The grave that I raised you out of. For all intents and purposes, you are dead. Your heart does not beat. Your lungs do not need the air. You are no longer human."

He watched from over her shoulder as her hands flitted to her chest, feeling the nothingness that once held life. He could tell she was holding her breath, testing his words before she would accept them as truth. The thought made him smile, though he quickly hid it by burying his lips in her soft hair. Slowly, as she regained her footing, he loosened his arm, and allowed her to turn to face him. Her hands pressed against his chest, confirming that his heart did not beat. Her eyes stayed trained on his chest, watching for the rise and fall of the breath that did not come.

"They would not accept you. They do not know, cannot understand; and they would call you for a monster. But you, my Pamela, you are so much more. Much more than a mere human. You are no monster. You are a force of nature."

Her face finally turns up to meet his; she hesitates, unsure of her own intentions before her eyes flutter closed, and her lips search for his. He willingly meets them with his own; her anchor in death. He can feel the sorrow seep through their now shared blood; but with it, also comes triumph. He can only associate it with the elation of escape.

"I can't go back."

He shakes his head, slowly from side to side as he watches her accept that firm fact. His forehead presses against hers.

"Please, Pamela. Come with me."

He can see the red tears rim her eyes, and he brushes his thumbs through the trail down her cheeks, smearing her porcelain skin. Her blue eyes widen as she sees the crimson marks, and he can see she is doing her best to ignore them.

"And if I refuse?"

"Then I will leave you here. And you will never see me again."

And though the words feel like silver across his bare chest, he already knows that she will follow him. That she would follow him anywhere. And that for all his words, he would never leave her. Her fingers fly up to her cheeks, hoping for a distraction from his intense glare. The blood stains her fingertips as she holds them up to study them in the moonlight.

"This is disgusting."

He never could handle a woman's tears; especially not this woman.

"Then I suggest you stop."

He slowly takes a step back, away from her; clearly giving her two options. To stay with him, or to return to the home she just escaped from. He knew her decision the moment she turned away from him to look at the house she could see all too clearly now. It was a look of goodbye. She kept her eyes on the house as he made quick work of the still open grave, filling it with dirt, burying her coffin once again. When he had completed his task, gathering up a strewn flower from a well wisher, along with the rose that he brought, he held his hand out to her still turned back. As if it were steps in a well rehearsed dance, she turned and placed her hand in his at the same moment.

"Who are you?"

He smiled softly as he pulled her to him, placing the rose he plucked from below her window into her curls. His thumbs brushed away the stray drops of blood that had ceased to fall from her eyes.

"Eric."

Ever the gentleman, he offered her the other flowers that had littered her grave. A slow smirk that he instantly loved flitted across her lips. She flung the flowers over her shoulder, and they landed with blunt finality on her grave. Without another word, she took his hand, following him out into the night.


	6. Chapter 6

"You _live_ here?"

Eric refrained from rolling his eyes; an annoying habit of his that she seemed to be intent to bring back. She had followed him wordlessly through the now dim streets, his cape framing her face lest she be recognized by anyone they happened to pass. It was pure luck that they met no one else, for Eric would have taken no chances of someone seeing her back from the dead. Anyone would have been met with a swift death. And perhaps she understood this, because she had kept her mouth shut, and kept her hand in his.

Pulling his own cape from her as she stood in the middle of the tiny flat, he draped it over the back of a chair he had never actually sat in. His back to her, he let his eyes roam around the room. It met his needs as a light-tight place to sleep; and that was all he cared about. He had never before found a fault with it, but hearing the accusation in Pamela's voice suddenly turned him…shy.

"It's a loose interpretation of the word 'live,' I'll admit, Pamela. But yes. This is where I…reside."

He turned, timidly, as if expecting her to threaten to go back home again at the sight of his sparse apartment. His eyes anxiously followed her as she took a few slow steps, taking in everything. Finally, turning to face him again, her hands on her hips, she raised a brow.

"I was expecting a castle."

There was no change to his expression, but his eyes glittered. He knew in the instant that she noticed, because her own blue eyes followed suit. Simply staring at her, he deadpanned:

"I'm so sorry to disappoint."

She took a step closer, as if gauging his reaction.

"You don't have any family portraits. No pictures. No baubles from friends…"

"I don't have any friends."

He watched, fascinated as her brows drew together at his words. He could feel her emotions spiraling through him; pity, excitement, fear.

"What about your family?" She took another step closer, and saw the slight twitch of her arm as if she longed to reach for him.

"My human family has been dead for over nine hundred years."

She drew back, not having expected those words with so little emotion attached to them, sorrow filled her eyes. This time he was the one who stepped forward, closing the distance between them as his hands came to rest on her waist. He did not like to see anything other than joy on her face, and he spoke quickly, cutting through her weak "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. They've had peace for those years. More than I can say for myself."

She seemed comforted by that fact, and he watched closely as she spread her hands over his chest, as if still expecting him to vanish into thin air.

"So you don't have anyone?"

"I have you."

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them; though he felt no shame. He could feel the pull of dawn outside of the door, and from the way Pamela's eyes were beginning to droop, he could tell that she felt it to; though she did not yet know what it meant. Slowly, as if he were addressing a child, he spoke as he began to undress her; turning her away from him with a spin of his finger so he could unlace her gown. For once, she did not question him, and obeyed. They worked in silence for those few minutes; he untying the binds and she stepping out of the fabric as it pooled by her feet. He stopped only when he got to her shift; and he grinned when he saw her frown of disappointment. Tossing her dress across the chair, he scooped her up into his arms, her body falling limp with fatigue. Before he set her down on the bed, his cool breath whispered across her ear, and he was pleased to see the goose bumps on her flesh that followed her words.

"Believe me, if it wasn't imperative for you to rest, min ros, there would not be a stitch of clothing on you."

Chuckling as he drew back up to his full height, he kept his eyes locked on her tired ones as he began to divest of his own clothes. And yet again, she surprised him. Pulling herself to her knees on the mattress, she reached out, her fingers tugging on the ascot that he still wore around his neck. She hesitated, clearly waiting for his permission. As his coat dropped to the floor, he simply nodded, and that was all she needed. Her fingers pulled apart the fabric, letting it join his coat. His gaze never left her face; this was far more intimate than what had transpired in the graveyard.

Anyone could have sex. And he had done so, many, many times. But never had he brought a woman back with him; never had he felt the urge to claim someone for an eternity; never had he allowed a woman to rest in his bed. And never had he allowed a woman to undress him, without the next step being of a carnal nature. She was the first, and if he had anything to do with it, the last woman to see him like this, to see him vulnerable. His linen shirt soon pooled on the floor, and he only stopped her when her fingers reached for his pants; if he was going to let her rest, he needed all the help he could get. His eyes still on her, he slid between the blankets, expecting her to scurry over to the other side; but as soon as the sheets encased both of them, there she was, nestled to his side in a way he was not used to; but that he found he enjoyed immensely.

The sun was nearly fully over the horizon now, and still her eyes did not close.

"Close your eyes, Pamela."

"I don't want to."

His lips pressed together, forming a line as he carefully schooled his voice.

"You must."

"But…what happens?"

No doubt she was feeling the unfamiliar pull of death. It was a strange sensation, one he hadn't thought about in centuries. To welcome death, when you had once been so keen to run in the opposite direction.

"You close your eyes. And then you go to sleep."

"And then what?"

He gritted his teeth; she was as full of questions as he had once been. Never before had he realized the enormity of Godric's patience.

"And then you die."

His hand covered her mouth a split second before she shrieked in fright, and he mentally berated himself for scaring her. Still, he couldn't calm his hiss as he locked his arms around her, willing her to be still.

"And then you'll wake up at nightfall. I promise. You will wake up." Her blue eyes watered and she looked utterly pathetic as she clung to his unyielding arms. He couldn't deal with tears. "You'll start bleeding again." That phrase alone changed her look from fright to one he could only associate with wanting to bite his hand off. He arched a brow, wordlessly asking if she was going to scream again. And she arched one right back. That was good enough for him, and he moved his hand away, coaxing her to lie back down.

An hour later, and still his stubborn brat would not sleep. He had closed his eyes long ago, but he did not allow himself to drift off. Instead he relished in the emotions that seemed to assault him from her side of their blood bond. He had heard human parents describing the sleepless nights after a newborn was brought in, and he had a sudden sympathy for them. Without warning, his lips began to move, and his voice was merely a whisper in the dark room.

"Bryr du inte vet,  
Därför sova,  
Medan över dig en klocka jag ska hålla.  
Sov,  
Ganska älskling,  
Gråt inte,  
Och jag kommer att sjunga en vaggvisa."

He could tell the exact moment that her eyes closed, and inwardly, he breathed a sigh of relief. As her last concious thought floated through her head, she voiced it with a sluggish whisper.

"I was still expecting a castle."

"Go to sleep, Pamela."

**Translations:**

**Min ros** – _My rose_

**Eric's Lullabye**: _Cares you know not,_

_Therefore sleep,_

_While over you a watch I'll keep._

_Sleep,_

_Pretty darling,_

_Do not cry,_

_And I will sing a lullaby._


	7. Chapter 7

If there was still blood pumping through her veins, she surely would have blushed.

A woman. She was _craving_ a woman.

The dark chuckle in her ear reminded her that this was a lesson; and her teacher was being anything but proper.

"Ah. So you wish to taste the fairer sex, Pamela?"

He had kept her to himself for two whole nights. They hadn't left his bed. _Their_ bed. The thought of sharing had always disgusted him. He had taken care of himself when he had left Godric, and he had always assumed that he would be most unwilling to share. But only three nights with this woman and he was ready to throw everything he owned at her. She could have asked for anything, and he would have provided it and more.

He knew they would have to travel soon enough; and she would need to learn how to control herself; how to take care of herself. He had once again dressed her in the deep red velvet, with whispered promises that he would be taking her back out of it before the night was through. His fingers had lingered on the fabric, enjoying still the contrast against her pale skin. It hadn't gone unnoticed by her; but before she could ask, he had wrapped her in a black traveling cloak, buttoning it at her throat, and whisked her out the door.

It was late enough into the night that most respectable people had retired to their home. The only ones who remained on the street were stragglers, pickpockets, women of the night. He had growled when he felt the first tendrils of fear lace their blood. He had abruptly shoved her into a darkened alley, his large frame overpowering hers as he pressed her against the brick wall.

"You're frightened. Why?"

And though he wanted to smirk at the glare she aimed at him, he kept his face impassive. She was frightened of the humans that still lurked on the street; frightened still of the night. But as she glared at the ancient Viking who had killed her, who had stolen her away, there was not a drop of fear. She refused to answer him; instead jerking her chin up. His hand wrapped easily around her throat, his thumb holding her chin in place as he repeated his question. This time, her eyes darted to the street and back; where not a single passerby seemed concerned that a man had a woman in a dark alley. His grip loosened as his eyes fell to her lips, his thumb gently pulling on the bottom one. Leaning in, his breath ran cool along her skin as his hips came within inches of hers.

"You fear nothing. You are more than them. So much more. They fear you."

This time, he did not repress the grin that spread across his face as she arched an eyebrow. He could almost see the sarcasm bubbling up.

"Close your eyes, Pamela."

She continued to glare for a second more, as if waiting for the growl that she knew would spring from his lips. Only three days old, and already defying him. He vaguely toyed with the idea of telling her that everyone else who had ever dared to was dead; human and vampire alike. But he truly doubted it would phase her. He seemed to be her own exception to the rule.

When he eyes finally snapped shut, he lowered his hands, clutching her to him by her waist. Gracefully, he spun her so that her back was to his chest, and she was facing the street. His lips brushed against her ear as his hands drifted to her shoulders.

"Inhale. You can taste the air; you can taste the night. The darkness is your playground now. These humans, they are your toys. You are above them. You have always been above them."

She stiffened in his arms, but he continued.

"Listen. You can hear their heartbeats. You can hear their blood, flowing through their veins. And it is yours to claim. You can end them if you so wish. You can play god."

He dropped his hands as she took a slow step forward, hesitant to leave the safety that she knew his arms provided.

"Now open your eyes; and find them."

It was then that her eyes had fluttered open, and landed immediately on the young woman passing by. He could tell his teasing had mortified her; panic swept through their blood, along with the hunger. It amused him to no end. The woman he had fucked in the dirt of her own grave, suddenly shy.

"Go to her," he instructed softly.

"What if I kill her?"

"Then she dies," he replied matter of fact.

Still, she did not move forward. She turned her head, pleading with him through her blue eyes. She was starving; bloodthirsty as the sound of the woman's blood pumped so close. He could just as easily grabbed the human, and brought her to his progeny. But he did not. Instead he returned her stare, his face emotionless.

She dared him. "And if I don't?"

"Then you starve."

She hid her shock well enough, but he saw the flash behind her eyes. Anger. Fear. Hunger. She could see that he wasn't going to back down. Pam whirled back around, the cloak that covered her face nearly flying off in the process. As she took the first small step forward, Eric's voice followed, low enough so that only she could hear.

"I'm right here. Right behind you. You don't have to look to see me. You just have to know."

Her feet brought her right to the wide-eyed girl, and for a long moment, all they did was stare at each other. Eric watched, silent in the shadows, as the two women seemed to appraise each other. He knew the instant that Pam's fangs sliced down, for the woman's face contorted in horror. Before she could even form her mouth into a scream, Eric had pushed Pam behind him, his eyes locked on the frightened woman's, his voice coming out like rich, golden honey.

"You're not going to yell, are you? What's the point of yelling? Nothing bad is going to happen, isn't that right?"

As the woman calmly nodded, her eyes glassing over, Eric glanced over his shoulder at Pam, motioning for her to come in front of the woman again. She shook her head, her heels all but digging into the cobblestone of the street. He shrugged, turning his attention back to the woman. Gracefully, he held out his hand to her, and she accepted it as if she was a highborn princess, and not a scullery maid who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. As soon as her warm skin touched his, he heard, and felt, the jealousy course through Pam. He was momentarily distracted; she was jealous. And he quite liked the sensation. He was hers, just as much as she was his.

Studiously ignoring her, he led the enchanted woman back to the shadows. There, he pressed her back against the brick of the alley, his eyes not once sliding over to the blonde woman who was nearly trembling with anger. His own fangs descended, but the woman did not scream; instead she merely obeyed as he tilted her head, his lips whispering against her neck. Finally raising his eyes to his progeny's, he sunk his teeth into the human's neck, allowing the blood to spill around his mouth. Pam took a step closer, her hand raised as if to snatch the meal away. Releasing his hold on the woman, Eric sneered, blood glistening on his lips.

"She truly was a good choice, Pamela. Almost too good to share."

He felt the pain, the hunger, the jealousy sweep through her. And when she spoke, it was a mere whine.

"…Eric."

She had no idea how just the sound of his name on her lips threatened to undo him. He would have slaughtered the whole street so she could drink. But he had to teach; it was an unspoken vow he had made when he had made her his.

"No."

She would never know how much it killed him to say that word to her. He knew she was hungry. And he prayed she would forgive him someday. He turned away, more so that he could escape her stare rather than ignite her hunger. His lips skimmed the bloody throat of his meal, traveling up to her mouth. Just before his lips met hers, he felt the jealousy explode, and the resolve harden. This time when she spoke, it was a command.

"Eric."

Wordlessly, he withdrew, allowing her to take his place in front of the woman. The brunette's eyes followed him for only an instant more before Pamela demanded her attention. This time his progeny didn't blink, forcing her will onto the human. The woman submitted, her eyes closing as she offered her neck once again. Pam didn't even glance back at him before she bit, directly over his marks. When the blood hit her belly, he heard the moan of pleasure. She pulled at the blood, flooding her mouth over and over. When Eric heard the heart weaken, he gently touched her elbow. He would not pull her away. If she drained her, she drained her. But at his touch, Pam stopped, and regarded the woman with kind eyes. And then, in a flash, her eyes changed, regarding the woman with anger; and Eric felt the jealousy once again as a whispered threat echoed in the alley.

"Run."

The woman didn't need telling twice; the charm had lifted. Clutching at her neck, with hardly any strength to scream, she fled. Eric's laughter filled the void, even as Pam turned on him, nearly growling in anger. Just before she launched herself at him, he had her scooped up in his arms, pressed against the brick wall. She continued to glare even as his lips pressed against hers, and her tongue darted out to clean them of the blood that still dripped there. Surprising even him, she bit his bottom lip, drawing his blood into her own mouth. Pride surging through him, his hand gripped her chin, forcing her mouth away from his. She growled, still trying to taste him. He waited until she stilled, staring at him with anger and lust. He raised his brows, imploring her to listen.

"Lesson Two: No one can feed you but yourself."

She rolled her eyes, still trapped between him and the wall.

"You forgot to tell me the first lesson…master."

The sarcasm dripped from her words, and his grin grew as he shook his head.

"I've been telling you along, min ros. You just haven't been listening."

The jealousy still rippled through her when he caught her lips with his once again.

"Lesson One: No one compares to you."


	8. Chapter 8

Eric's eyes had been riveted to the entrance way ever since Pamela had walked out of it nearly five hours ago now. He had been the one to calm her, telling her that she had to learn the limits of her own control.

They had been in Ireland for over three months now, having left England after only a few days after her rising. It was safer that way. He had brought her to his usual residence in the Emerald Aisle, though he hadn't visited it in a few decades. Thomas, the young, strapping lad he had glamoured all those years ago was now a hobbled old man; though just as helpful as ever. He had greeted Eric wholeheartedly, not seeming to notice his frozen appearance though enough years had certainly passed. After the few pleasantries that Eric deemed to exchanged, the man took off back inside, in an effort to ready the space for his master. Eric had turned back without looking to the carriage to offer Pamela his hand; they had had to forgo the steam car once they had hit the rolling hills. When her hand did immediately materialize in his, a frown etched his face, and he turned as he spoke.

"Pamela, don't dally. The sun will be rising soon..."

Her shocked eyes were not looking at him though; they were wide and staring at their new residence. He turned to look at the structure once more before regarding her with a raised brow.

"Is there an issue I'm not aware of, min söta?"

Even the old language, which she was picking up entirely too quickly for her own good, did not stir her from her frozen position; one of her feet still in the motion of stepping down. After a long moment, her eyes flicked down to his, and then to the stone in front of her once again. He could not hide the smirk that began to form on his lips, and rather unceremoniously, he reached up, pulling her hand so that she toppled down into his arms. She glared up at him, hastily rearranging her skirt. But once again, her attention was drawn to the lodging behind him.

"Is that...why...you?"

Eric's laugh had echoed in the foggy night; she hadn't shut up since they had risen that night. And here she stood, speechless. He glanced behind him again, absolutely giddy at her clear surprise.

"You told me you expected a castle."

She stared at him, incredulous, her mouth working to form any word possible. Behind him, loomed the stone castle, sitting on a cliff, overlooking the ocean. Thanks to the recent and plentiful rain, the greenery was a deep emerald shade, framing the stone. It was beautiful. It was tranquil. He had chosen it not out of necessity, but purely because he had liked it. And right now, seeing the surprise give way to excitement, to elation, her blood swirling with both deep and shallow emotions; it was the smartest purchase he had ever made.

"Is it...is it for me?"

She frowned immediately after she spoke; and he was sure her words went much deeper than that. He could feel exactly what she meant. He may have bought it, years ago, but it was for her. It had just been waiting. Waiting for this day. For the princess to storm the front gate and claim it. It was his, and that made it hers, without question.

"Yes, min prinsessa. This is your castle."

Three months since she had all but skipped inside, her brain already buzzing with the thought of redecorating. Thomas had been instructed to just give her whatever she requested. She would leave him a list at dawn, and by the time she would rise at night, carts filled with supplies would be making their way up the twisting road to the ivy covered castle. With Thomas following behind her like a puppy, she had transformed the cold rooms, taking it upon herself to do most of the heavy lifting. Eric, ever the gentleman, had offered his assistance. But after she had realized she could lift an entire dining table over her head with ease, there wasn't truly a point. And he had listened to fursniture being thrown around for days afterward, simply because she could. Her new favorite way of getting his attention was to throw a chair at him. Only once had he threatened to throw it back.

The first time one of her dresses had torn, she had been scaling a ladder in the library. Even Thomas had heard the _"riiiiiip"_ from across the room. Eric had watched, openly, as she frowned, fingering the tear before letting the skirt fall back. She had gone back to her task, but the frown had stayed in place.

That next night, she had quietly pulled on a pair of his pants, cinching them at the waist with one of his belts. She had glared at him, daring him to say something. Instead, he had simply asked if she would be requiring one of his shirts. The growl that was thrown over he shoulder as she flounced from the room had been worth it. And even in men's pants, she moved with the grace that was all woman. He had offered, of course, to replace the dress, to buy her a whole closet full. She had been quick to decline; which had left him surprised. The red dress he had fallen in love with, the one she had been buried in, had been made of silk and other fine fabrics. She was no stranger to fashion. And he had seen the sad frown when it had ripped. But he had let it go; intrigued and confused at the same time. She was unlike any other woman he had met in his nearly nine hundred years on this earth.

And tonight, Eric could not find a single pair of his own pants to wear, and his growl had echoed off the walls. He had stalked through the halls, her discarded crimson dress gripped in his hand. Rounding the corner of yet another sitting room, he came upon her, kneeling by one of windows, casually dusting a candlebra that was already dust free. He knew she could feel his anger, and yet she did not stir. His mouth twisted, and he nearly spit out her name.

"_Pamela_."

Only after she had completed a few more strokes with the feathers, did she bother to glance up at her maker. When she saw the dress that he had at this point tossed to the ground, her brow arched. She blinked. With an utterly bored expression, she had spoken in a way that had personally introduced many before her to Death.

"Eric, if you wanted to wear my dress, you didn't need to ask. I could even turn out the seams for you."

And with that, she had turned back to her dusting. Caught somewhere between a snarl and a laugh, Eric bent to retrieve the dress again, closing the space between them. Without a word, only a rough shove, he had turned her around to face him. His eyes locked on hers, daring her, his quick fingers had loosened the belt she wore at her waist, letting it and the pants fall to the stone floor. He held out the dress to her, as if she had a choice in the trade. Ever his proud child, she snatched it away, pulling it over her own head as he pulled the pants up to his waist. Once he had fastened the buckle, he made a twirling motion with his hands, and she complied allowing him to lace up the back. When his fingers had finished their task, he dropped his lips to her neck, skimming them down to her shoulder with featherlight kisses.

"You need new dresses. As much in favor I may be to have you walking around naked all the time, the neighbors may talk."

"You don't have any neighbors here, Eric," she snorted in response.

"Not here, but there are plenty in other places."

She turned her head at that, he eyebrows nearly disappearing into her hairline.

"You have other homes? Other homes like this...?" Her voice had trailed off into excitement, and if he wasn't mistaken, trepidation.

"Yes. In other countries. You could re-decorate them all to your heart's content..." Something in the way her eyes glanced to the floor, and then back again, caused him to snap his mouth shut. His hand found her neck, and he forced her to look at him. There was no anger in his voice, or in his actions, he just needed her to see him. His eyes did not stray as he placed a soft kiss onto her lips.

"You do not like redecorating?" The word still sounded foreign to him.

"I, um, I don't mind..." She tried to finish, but his lips cut her off with a harsh kiss as his grip tightened in the slightest way.

"That is not an answer. You do not enjoy what you've been doing."

"Not exactly...Wait!" Both of her tiny hands reached up to encircle his as he tightened his hold again. Immediatly he let her go, but did not take a step back.

"Tell me," the command was a plea.

"I thought it was what you wanted," she reached up, delicately placing her hands over his mouth as he opened it to retort. "You told me; you told me I was your child, your sister, your mother, your..your wife. I thought that's what was expected. I thought that was my place."

He didn't even hesitate as he answered.

"Your _place_ is at _my side_. You could paint the entire place pink, or smash it to dust. As long as it made you happy. Do you understand me?"

She nodded her head, and he would have had to have been blind to not see the relief in her eyes.

"I still fail to see why this has lead you to stealing my last pair of pants."

Her hysterical giggle filled the air, "I don't have any money!"

"Were you under the impression that I stole all of this?"

"But that's _your_ money..."

"Which makes it yours."

The tone of his voice broached no argument. He motioned for Thomas, who had reappeared after it seemed his master wasn't going to kill the nice lady.

"Take Pamela into town. She seems to be losing her mind in here."

As Thomas shuffled away, Eric barely entertained any of her protests. She was ready to go out on her own; she had more control then he had ever seen in a newborn. She had to see that she was ready.

The last word he spoke to her as he clasped the traveling cloak at her neck, was a whispered command.

"Behave."

That had been hours ago. And he still hadn't moved from his post by the door. He had felt the excitement, the joy. And he had also felt the hunger, the doubt. But it was the feeling of acute embarrassment he was most concerned about. Nothing came through as to what brought it on.

Finally, he heard the wheels on the rocky road. He made himself stay still, waiting until the door was opened, even as he wanted to run out to the road and see her for himself. The door swung slowly open, aided by the hobbled man, and she hurried inside, the hood of the cloak clutched at her throat. His brow wrinkled as he took a step forward, but before he could reach her, she threw back the hood.

Her cheeks were stained with scarlet tears.


	9. Chapter 9

**Sorry for the long wait, everyone! I had all these ideas in my head and they just didn't want to go down on paper! They have been punished.**

Very slowly, Eric walks over to his progeny, his eyes studying her form for any sign of injuries besides the rivers of blood that streak her pale cheeks. He finds none, and his brow raises in confusion as he wipes the crimson blood with his own fingers, speaking in a low tone.

"Did someone harm you?"

She shakes her head defiantly once from side to side.

"Did you harm someone?"

Again, she shakes her head, a few of her carefully pinned curls coming loose in the process. His blue eyes follow the path of her golden locks before they dart to the empty doorway; Thomas having taken his opportunity to sneak out.

"Did you choose the fabrics for your new dresses…?"

At the innocent word of "dresses," Pamela's shoulders slump, and Eric is suddenly hard pressed to hold her gaze for more than a second. He feels the embarrassment flow through her, along with anger and hunger. Gently, he tips her chin up with a single finger, forcing her to look at him. His voice is deadly as he asks,

"What happened?"

Fresh tears spring to her eyes, and she tries her best to wrench her chin away from his grasp. But his strength is not to be questioned.

"I will not ask you again, Pamela."

She defies him for only a moment longer, and then the words fall from her lip while fresh blood streams down her face. Eric merely waits until she reaches the end of her tale, explaining exactly why the dressmaker refused to serve her. He's unsure what exactly has her so upset, though. The dressmaker had merely stated that he could not be sure a transaction could be completed without the authority of Mr. Northman himself. Even Eric could understand this issue, and he mentally berated himself for not providing her with more money, instead of relying on his own name for the bill.

"I didn't realize you had such an emotional connection with fabrics," he says as he arches a brow, pleased when a ghost of a smile crosses her lips.

"That wasn't the reason, Eric…." She looks down, only to meet his eyes on her own in the next instant. "He said…he said his shop was a reputable establishment, and he didn't deem it appropriate to…to provide services…to your whores."

Eric stays incredibly still for a moment, although the rage brewing inside him causes Pamela to take a step back. Not out of fear, but to get out of his way. Slowly, as if testing his own control, he turns to look at her.

"He called you my whore."

She nods quickly, wiping away the drying tears.

"He said I had no right to affiliate myself with you…no right to draw on your name…"

Her words are cut off by his iron grip on her arm, and she finds herself being pushed back into the carriage, with Eric taking on the reins himself. Scrambling closer to him in the rambling carriage, she clutches as his arm, though he seems to ignore it as he implores the horse to go faster with an expert crack of his whip.

She doesn't quite manage to keep the note of excitement out of her voice as she speaks over the whistling wind.

"What are you going to do to him?"

His silence is much more ominous than any threat could ever be. It lasts the entire way down to quiet village, the horse's hooves preceding him like as if he was the apocalypse. He parks the carriage, not bothering to tie the horse to the post before he offers Pamela his hand. She takes it, not daring to take her eyes of off her maker, his anger still rolling through him in waves. He opens the door to the clearly closed shop, allowing her to enter before him.

Even before her feet cross the threshold, Pamela can hear the shopkeeper's heartbeat pick up. She raises her eyes to his, and in their reflection, she can see exactly when Eric enters the shop behind her. The man's eyes dilate, and his beating heart seems to be trying to escape his chest. Eric merely stays in the doorway, hands folded in front of him, staring down the old man with a look of pure boredom. There's not only fear in the shopkeeper's eyes, but a dark respect.

"Mr. Northman…I…welcome…how can I help you?"

The man's stammering speech pales in comparison to Eric's smooth words.

"I believe there was an issue earlier this evening. I have come to rectify it."

The shopkeeper's wide eyes finally focus on the blonde woman, who has been silent since she set foot in the shop. Pamela could mark the exact moment he realized he had made a grace mistake.

"I…I didn't know she was…I don't know who she is…please…"

Eric's fangs click into place as he strides forward, the small man cowering before him. But Eric holds his gaze, and his words drip like honey.

"She is my wife. And as such, you will treat her with the same respect you would extend to me. The quicker this shit stain of a town learns that, the better. Are we understood?"

When the man nods, Eric's gaze slides behind him to Pamela's, arching a brow at her shocked expression. He motions her forward with a crook of his finger, grinning as she snaps her mouth shut and steps forward. He places her in front of him, standing directly behind her, his hands encircling her waist. The human blinks at her, waiting almost expectantly.

"Tell him who you are."

Pamela glances over her shoulder, but her chin is held roughly in place by one of his broad hands, forcing her to look into the man's eyes.

"Tell him who you are."

"I'm…Pam."

Eric doesn't question the shortening of her own name, merely nodding as he urges her to continue.

"And why should he listen to you?"

"Because I'm…yours."

Eric chuckles, his blunt teeth nipping her earlobe.

"No…Why should _he_ listen to _you_."

"I don't know!" Eric took a step back as she actually stomped her foot, looking every inch the insolent child. He shrugged, taking another step away to regard her with cool eyes.

"Then you don't deserve to be listened to."

She stared at him for a long moment, and he saw the intensity in her eyes that first drew him to her. She spun on her heel, snatching the small man by his collar.

"You'll catch more flies with honey, than you will with vinegar, my Pamela."

She rolled her eyes, but she obeyed, her voice coming out sickly sweet.

"You _will_ listen to me. You _will_ respect me. Because I am above you. I am more than you. I could hold your life in my hands and drop it to the dirt if I got bored." She hitches a blonde brow. "Understood?"

Despite the fact that two vampires are staring him down in his own shop, the man nods quite calmly. Eric grins, impressed at the attitude of his darling child. But it seems she's not done yet.

"And you will give me all the dresses I want, no matter the fabric, at no cost. To pay for your transgressions."

She releases the man, and walks, with her head held high past her maker. Eric arches a brow, wondering if this is the same woman who came to him not an hour ago with tears streaming down her face. She waits expectantly by the carriage, and holds out her hand before he even gets close. As she puts her foot on the step, she pauses, turning her head sharply to him.

"Why did you say I was your wife? You told me I wasn't your wife."

Eric tilts his head to the side, regarding her curiously.

"You are not my wife."

"Then why did you…"

"It's a convenient enough title. Don't you agree?"

She nods her head as he releases her hand. She situates herself on the seat, purposefully ignoring him as he settles back into the driver's seat. He half turns, willing her to look at him.

"Pamela."

She suddenly finds a piece of fluff on her sleeve far more interesting.

"Pam."

Again, she ignores him.

"Whore."

He all but laughs out loud as her eyes blaze in anger. He ruefully shakes his head, a soft smirk forming on his face.

"You are not my wife. Because that word would be an insult to what this is."

He grins as her eyes soften, even as she attempts to hide her own smile as he turns the reins back to their home.


End file.
